


A Fate Worse Than Fire

by redcandle17



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 02:47:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1671836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcandle17/pseuds/redcandle17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor finds fatherhood quite difficult. Fluff and humor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Most Trying Battle Of His Life

Her screams still rang in his ears. Sandor drained the wineskin and reached for another. Stranger whined. Sandor patted the horse absently. He wondered if it was over yet. He knew it could last for days sometimes. The thought of Sansa in pain for that long had him finishing the second wineskin. 

He had the wild urge to flee, to saddle Stranger and ride away from here as fast as he could. Sandor drank instead. He didn't know how long he stayed there before one of Sansa's maids came for him. 

"M'lord? Lady Sansa wants to see you. It's over now. You have a son." She beamed at him, showing no judgment at finding him drunk in his warhorse's stall. 

Sandor rose unsteadily and followed her back to the Great Keep. The castlefolk were so bloody _happy_. It was strange to him. His family's servants had been a quiet, fearful lot. The Lannisters hadn't been loved by their servants either, not in his lifetime. 

"Sandor! Isn't he beautiful?!" Sansa was sitting up in bed, a tiny red thing cradled to her chest.

Sandor laid down beside her, ignoring the bloody sheets and the shocked gasps of the women milling about the chamber. "You're not calling him Florian," he said, for the thousandth time.

"Oh, no," Sansa said. "I've named him after my lord father. He has his eyes. Well, I suppose they're your eyes. Don't you want to say hello to him?"

Sandor grunted. He slung an arm across her lap and closed his eyes. 

"M'lord, I've made up your bed in your chambers," said one of the women. 

Sandor ignored her. He had no intention of sleeping in Ned Stark's bed. 

"M'lord, you can't stay here."

"It's all right, Melessa," Sansa said. 

*

"Isn't he handsome?" Sansa cooed. "He's the handsomest babe ever." 

She was always saying that. The baby looked damn ugly to Sandor. His head was practically as big as his body and he only had a few wisps of dark hair on his head. He was always drooling too. 

"He looks like you. I'm sure this is what you looked like when you were little."

Sandor was wounded. He hadn't been ugly before Gregor burned him. "He's uglier than me. He's hideous." 

The change that came over Sansa was so astonishing that he wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it. Her eyes flashed and she seemed bigger. Her voice was nearly a growl when she shouted for the guards.

"M'lady?" Both guardsmen ran into the room with their spears ready. 

"Remove this man from my sight."

The men glanced around for the intruder who had offended their lady. Sandor looked around too, until he noticed the finger pointed at him. 

"Who?" asked the taller guard.

"You mean your husband, my lady?" asked the other. 

"Yes," snapped the Lady of Winterfell. "I don't want him in here. Not ever again." 

The guards shuffled nervously and looked at each other. Then they turned to Sandor with beseeching looks. 

"No," he said.

"Please, m'lord," begged the shorter guard, "I have children." Sandor couldn't say whether he was worried for his job or his life. 

Sansa was looking as though she might snatch a spear and do the job herself, or even bludgeon him with her precious babe. Sandor strode out of the room and went to find some good wine. 

He slept in Stranger's stall that night. 

Sandor expected his little bird to be sorry the next morning. He was prepared to let her chirp at him and order him a new doublet. But the guards barred his way when he tried to enter her bed chamber. 

"Sorry, my lord." 

"She's still mad." 

He worked in the yard with the men all day, then took up a post outside his wife's chambers after dinner. Sansa ignored him and Sandor waited until he fell asleep there. 

He woke up the morning after his fifth night without a bed to find Sansa and her spawn standing over him. She was holding the little beast so it could drool on him. 

"Ned wanted to see you."

Sandor wasn't stupid. He gingerly petted the babe and attempted to smile at him. 

*

Sandor couldn't imagine that a baby would care about such a thing, but Sansa insisted on having a feast for Ned's first name day. Sandor was bored as he watched her try on gown after gown, but there was nowhere else he wanted to be.

"How does this look?" Sansa twirled.

"Pretty," Sandor answered dutifully.

She frowned. "That's what you said about the last one."

"It was pretty. They all are."

She practically tore the gown off. 

Her son crawled across the bed and settled himself on top of Sandor. Sandor stared at him. The babe stared back. 

"He's _strange_ ," Sandor complained. "Children never like me. Except Joff." Ned began to prod at his scars with one tiny hand. "What's wrong with him?"

Sansa was mostly naked when she came over to them. "He loves his father." She smiled at them both. 

Sandor reached for her breasts, but she pushed him away and gave them to the baby instead. Sandor watched them miserably.

*

It pained Sandor to see the way Sansa had their son walking around. Worst of all, Ned never tried to remove his too-pretty clothes once he was free of his mother. He didn't even get them dirty. He was always so neat and clean and quiet, more like a doll than a boy. 

"Come here, boy," Sandor said one day, unable to stand it any longer.

Ned obediently ambled over to him. Sandor crouched and pushed him onto the ground. He rolled him this way and that, trying to soil those fancy clothes. The boy made a funny sound. Sandor ignored it and kept rolling him. 

"What are you doing?!" Sansa wailed.

Sandor started guiltily. 

"We're wrestling," Ned said. 

Sandor realized that funny sound was giggling. He allowed the boy to get him down on the ground. 

Sansa shifted the infant girl she held from one hip to the other. "That's wonderful. But couldn't you do it on a bed? You're getting your clothes dirty."

"Boys are supposed to be dirty," Sandor informed her. 

Sansa gave them a disdainful look and stroked her daughter's hair. "Let's leave the _boys_ to wallow in the dirt, Jonquil."

*

The boy had the size and the strength, but he just wasn't aggressive enough. He was downright timid. He barely tapped the other boys with his wooden sword and he always paused between blows to make sure they were unhurt. It was mortifying. Sandor could scarcely believe he was his son. 

"Harder," he shouted desperately.

Ned dealt his foe a blow that was scarcely harder than before. 

"Beat him! Pretend he's...." Perhaps that was the problem. The boy had lived too safe and sheltered a life. He had no anger to fuel him. "Pretend he insulted your mother." 

There was little improvement.

"Pretend he beat up your little sisters."

Nothing.

"What's wrong with you, boy? Aren't you going to defend your mother and your sisters?"

"But he didn't really..."

"Others will," Sandor interrupted him. "They'll try to hurt them and it's your duty to protect them. Now hit him harder."

Ned put a little more force into his blows, but not much. Sandor sighed and left him at it.

*

"Doesn't he look fierce?" Sansa squealed, smiling brightly. 

Sandor stared at the helm she'd had made for Ned's name day. It was clearly modeled after his old dog's head helm. 

Sansa adjusted the helm on the boy and hugged him. "You'll be as fierce as your father and as gallant as Ser Florian."

"Do you want him to be lynched by the smallfolk?" Sandor rasped. 

Sansa gave him a look of innocence. "What do you mean?"

"The Hound was never loved by anyone, and that was before those outlaws got hold of my helm."

It had to be willful, the way she misunderstood him. She hugged him tightly. " _I_ love the Hound."

Sandor gave up.


	2. A Fate Worse Than Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor is tormented by wolfdog pups.

Sandor was tired of people, except maybe his little bird. He missed the silence and solitude of the Quiet Isle. He'd been left alone in peace there. As long as he did his work, none of the proctors wasted their one day a week of talk having one-sided conversations with him. And since the other novices and brothers were under a vow of silence every day, none of them pestered him for swordplay tips or stories. 

He ignored the greetings of the castlefolk as he made his way to the stables, still unused to people trying to be respectfully cheery towards him. He preferred wary silence and cowering. To think he'd once hated the way people feared him. He hadn't known how good he'd had it. 

"M'lord, I did those exercises you said and..."

"I got the smith to add more weigh to that dagger..."

"That horse trader is still in the winter town wanting to see you about..."

Sandor ignored them all, sighing in relief when he reached Stranger's stall. The stallion neighed a greeting and nudged Sandor with his big head. Sandor scratched his ears. "We'll go for a long ride and hope we get lost in the wild."

He was saddling the horse when he heard it. "Can I go riding with you, Father?" 

Sandor turned around. A little boy with black hair and large grey-blue eyes was looking up at him, waiting for an answer. Sansa liked to coo that he looked like Sandor must have at his age, although Sandor was adamant that his nose had never been that big and anyway by that age his face had been already burnt. 

He wanted to say no. He meant to say no. But Sandor found himself slumming in defeat and saying, "If you can ready your horse yourself, boy." 

A gelding was saddled and ready in no time at all.

~

Sandor was giving himself a tour of the oldest section of the Stark crypt, enjoying the silence. He could almost feel the disapproval radiating from the statues of the ancient wolf kings. They were mean-looking sons of wolf bitches. Sandor smirked. They should be grateful to him. Sansa was no proper wolf at all; Sandor was doing them a favor by putting some fierceness back into their line. 

"I have a question," announced a voice that reminded Sandor of the hard little she-wolf Arya Stark had been. Sandor had a question of his own: how in the seven hells had a six year old girl managed to sneak up on him. 

She continued, "Tattle-tales should be punished, right? No matter who it is. If someone tells on you after promising not to, it's okay to beat them up?"

"Aye," Sandor agreed. "But not too much or your mother will find out. Just give them one good punch and that'll teach them." 

She curled one hand into a fist and began hitting the palm of her other hand. "That's what I thought." 

Sandor almost pitied whoever she was going to fight. 

~ 

He'd only just sat down in the hall - at a lower table, too - when the little monster managed to find him. The boy didn't bother to say anything before he used Sandor's leg to help himself climb up onto the bench. He didn't stay there long; he grabbed a handful of Sandor's tunic and began climbing up his back. 

Sandor ignored him and drained his wine cup. He tore a loaf of bread in half and began to eat. The boy settled on one shoulder for a moment before crawling across to the other shoulder. Then he climbed higher. Sandor finished eating with a two year old perched atop his head, pulling his hair to help keep his balance. 

An exhausted-looking woman ran towards him. "I'm sorry, my lord," she gasped, breathing hard, "I only turned my back for a moment. I swear." 

"I'm no lord," Sandor grumbled for the ten thousandth time. 

The nursemaid tried to scoop up the boy, but he wouldn't let go. "You need your nap," the woman pleaded, instead of wringing his ear like a sensible nurse would have. 

"No! Want DaDa."

Sandor supposed it wasn't out of his way to drop the brat off in the nursery. He pulled him off his head, stuck him under an arm, and strode out of the hall with the relieved nursemaid scurrying behind him. The boy giggled all the way and then insisted on being kissed before he would stay in his bed. 

~ 

Sandor found that he needed a nap too. He was an old man after all. He'd turned forty just three weeks past. He'd only had his eyes closed for a moment when he felt someone watching him. He opened his eyes to find a tiny version of Sansa standing beside the bed. 

"May I please stay with you, Father?" 

He was going to refuse, but she looked afraid. "Yes. But wouldn't you rather pick flowers or something?"

She settled next to him. "It's not safe in the garden," she confided. "Jonquil is going to hit me."

Damn. It hadn't occurred to Sandor that it was her sister his little she-wolf had been talking about. 

"I'm not a tattle-tale. I _had_ to tell Mother she was planning to put frogs in the septon's room." She added, "She said you said she could beat me, but I know you wouldn't let her." 

"I wouldn't," Sandor assured her. He closed his eyes to make another attempt at napping. But he could still feel his little lady watching him. "Don't you have needlework to do?"

"It's in the bower. Jonquil might be there waiting for me." 

They looked at each for a long time as Sandor tried to think of something to make her stop watching him that wouldn't also disturb his sleep. 

"May I brush your hair?" she asked at last. 

That would do. Sandor rolled onto his burned side so she could reach his hair. She sang softly while she brushed and Sandor quickly fell asleep. 

He woke up to the sound of, "Doesn't Father look pretty, Mother?" and opened his eyes to see the Lady of Winterfell waddling into the bed chamber. 

"He does," Sansa agreed. "But fathers aren't supposed to look pretty. They're supposed to look strong." 

Sandor turned to look at his sweet little girl who maybe wasn't so sweet after all and saw that the ribbons were missing from her hair. He reached up and felt his hair. He now had braids that ended in ribbons tied into bows. 

Sansa eased onto the bed. "This one is definitely yours," she said, taking his hand and putting it on her big belly. "He kicks much more than all my other babes."

It served her right. She was the one who kept having babies even though he begged her not to. But he didn't dare say it aloud. "Aren't they all mine?" He untied the yellow and white ribbons from his hair. 

" _I_ didn't kick you, did I, Mother?"

"You did a little," Sansa admitted. "But I'm sure you didn't mean to." 

Sandor growled at the last stubborn ribbon. He heard giggles as the other children piled into the room and saw him. That did it. He'd had enough. He got out of bed. He was going to back to the Quiet Isle. 

"Children," Sansa called, "your father is trying to run away again. You know what to do." 

All four of the little wolfdogs attacked him. Sandor lost his balance and fell to the floor. He tried to crawl away, but they began to tickle him. Little fingers were stroking his sides and under his chin. Someone pulled off his boots and then the soles of his feet were being scratched. Sandor wanted to cry, but he could only laugh uncontrollably.


	3. Pups He Can Be Proud Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wolfdog pups' behavior at Queen Daenery's tourney in King's Landing has Sansa appalled and Sandor proud.

Sandor hadn't really been watching. He kept glancing at the sky, in the direction of the Dragonpit, so he'd know if the dragons made for the castle. He gave his attention to the boys just in time to see his pup hit the other boy so hard his wooden sword broke over the other boy's shoulder. He knew it wasn't an accident because Ned didn't apologize and try to help the Tyrell whelp up.

Ned, usually so gentle that Sandor despaired, stood over his beaten foe with the broken wooden sword raised as if to hit him again. "Don't you ever say that about my lady mother again!"

Sandor's heart swelled with pride. Finally. The boy did have some of him in him after all. The Red Keep's master-at-arms was rebuking Ned. Sandor ignored him and clapped his son on the shoulder. "Well done, boy."

Ser Emmon gave him an angry look. "A squire has to learn to keep his temper if he is to be a knight."

Sandor jerked his head in the direction of the Tyrell boy, who was being tended by his father's men. "He has to learn to curb his tongue too."

"We are finished for today," Ser Emmon said.

Sandor and Ned made their way towards the Maidenvault, where the queen had given Sansa rooms for the duration of their visit. Septa Alys was marching there too. She had Cat in one hand and Jonquil in the other, and a look on her face like someone had shoved a spear up her arse. 

"Father." Cat started towards him, and Sandor saw the septa's hold tighten before she relented and let the girl go. "Father, you have to get your sword and armor."

"Why? Are we under attack?"

"That awful Kyra Kenning was very unkind to Jonquil and I. She said terrible things about us and about you and Mother. I tried to stop her from hurting Jonquil and she pushed me. She said she'd fight us both but I said ladies don't fight. I said their champions duel each other and she said her father would beat you and I told her she was wrong."

Sandor laughed. "Aye, I knocked Kenning senseless in a melee once. I'd wager I could do it again."

"I punched her right in her ugly face, Father," Jonquil chimed in. "And I kicked her. I would have beaten her good if Cat didn't get in my way."

"She was bigger than you. I was trying to stop her from pulling out your hair."

Septa Alys looked like the spear in her arse had been replaced by a lance. "Your daughters behaved quite badly today, my lord. They shamed themselves and their House." The hostility in her eyes and voice let him know who she blamed for the girls' unladylike behavior.

Sandor scooped up his girls, though they had gotten too big for him to comfortably carry them both. First Ned and now them. Fatherhood mostly meant he was plagued by pups who pestered him and stole all Sansa's attention. But days like this made up for it. 

He set them down when they reached Sansa's chamber, and prepared to enjoy the show. Sansa was already looking distraught and when the septa gave her report, her expression worsened. She looked ready to cry. "But, Cat, you know better."

Cat, their usually perfect little lady, was puzzled. "I didn't do anything wrong, Mother."

"Ned broke his sword on the Tyrell boy," Sandor announced. "He was defending your honor, little bird."

"Fighting, Ned? You?!" Sansa seated herself on the bed, looking weak. "I don't understand. You all promised to be on your best behavior and you're such good children usually."

Robb was sitting in a corner, facing the wall, though he'd twisted his head around to watch the rest of them. "What did that one do?" Sandor asked.

Sansa gave him an unfriendly look, as if he was responsible for whatever had happened. "He raced all around the sept and climbed on the altars and knocked over the offerings to the Mother. And he bit the septon when the poor man tried to calm him." 

Sandor couldn't resist laughing, though he knew it would make Sansa angrier. 

"I have half a mind to summon the servants to pack our things and leave for home this very afternoon," she threatened. 

That would suit Sandor fine. He hadn't wanted to come. He would have been content at Winterfell, far from the dragon queen's fire-breathing monsters. But the pups began to beg their mother to stay, promising to be good no matter how they were provoked. 

"All right. You have a second chance to be the good little children I know you are." Sansa picked up the babe and started to fuss with her swaddling clothes. Then she gave a muffled shriek. "Naerys! How could you? You stole the queen's earring."

"She's only a babe, Sansa."

Sansa wrestled a short string of glittering gold and diamonds away from the babe, who began to wail for its return. "Theft," she whimpered. "Queen Daenerys honored me by asking to hold my babe and I let the wicked babe steal her jewels." She moaned and began to cry. 

"It was not your fault, my lady," Septa Alys consoled her, with a glare at Sandor to indicate whose fault it was.

Sandor took the earring from Sansa and examined it. It had to be worth a small fortune. "No harm done. She has to know babes do such things, even if she doesn't have any of her own."

"Perhaps she doesn't know who stole it," Sansa was telling herself. "If I return it, it will alert her to our guilt and she may not forgive us. I don't want her to burn my poor babe." She dried her eyes, unlaced her gown, and offered her breast to Naerys. The babe accepted this substitute for her stolen loot and began to suckle contentedly. 

The Lady of Winterfell did not forgive the rest of them so easily. "Leave me," she commanded. "You made me get a terrible headache. I must rest before tonight's feast."

Sandor led his four older children out of the room. "Come before your mother exiles us all to the Wall."

"Women can't take the black," Cat pointed out.

"You, she'd send to the Silent Sisters."

"My lord, Catelyn and Jonquil ought to apologize to the other girl and beg her forgiveness. I shall see to it if you have other tasks to occupy you." Septa Alys's face made it plain she thought he couldn't be trusted in matters of courtesy. She was right.

"No, I'll herd the pups the rest of the day. You can...do whatever septas do in their leisure." 

"As you will." The septa left, looking back several times as if to check what mischief they might already have gotten into.

"Let's go look at the dragons, Father," Jonquil begged, and the other pups joined in. 

He might venture near a dragon if they were in danger but he wasn't going to go near the monsters merely for their entertainment. "Let's visit Baelor's Great Sept instead."

"We already saw that," Ned said.

"Your mother already took you to the Dragonpit too. If you do as she says, she may take you again before we leave."

"Please, Father," Cat pleaded.

Sandor quickly looked away. "You haven't seen Flea Bottom. You have to see Flea Bottom." There were goldsmiths down in Flea Bottom who could quickly take apart jewelry and produce something new. Sansa would like a new bracelet. "You can ride your ponies. I'll buy you the street food the smallfolk eat. It'll be fun." 

The pups didn't look convinced but they followed him obediently. Sandor patted each of them on the head fondly. They'd been such good little pups today. He was very proud of them.


End file.
